Quarterly, is it, money reproaches me: <br />'Why do you let me lie here wastefully? <br />I am all you never had of goods and sex, <br />You could get them still by writing a few cheques.' <br /> <br />So I look at others, what they do with theirs: <br />They certainly don't keep it upstairs. <br />By now they've a second house and car and wife: <br />Clearly money has something to do with life <br /> <br />- In fact, they've a lot in common, if you enquire: <br />You can't put off being young until you retire, <br />And however you bank your screw, the money you save <br />Won't in the end buy you more than a shave. <br /> <br />I listen to money singing. It's like looking down <br />From long French windows at a provincial town, <br />The slums, the canal, the churches ornate and mad <br />In the evening sun. It is intensely sad.<br /><br />Philip Larkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/money-2/
